Stochastic
by Mr. Jengablock
Summary: A collection of short stories for an unusual pairing, written off a randomly generated one word prompt. kabunaru
1. Collectivity

**prompt word: collectivity**

Kabuto faded into the crowd, meandering from one end to the next, keeping his eye on the target without indicating any interest. He would stop at shops, duck inside to buy something ( _three spools of wire,_ genin Kabuto hummed, _just what I needed_ ), and allow the target to move on a ways. One had to use all their senses when tailing—relying too heavily on one or the other would get you caught.

Though he was not a sensor, he could pick up on the quiver of stilted chakra, like a flame suffocating under a vase, a dying flower.

He smiled at the salesclerk as he left and received a jaunty wave in return. He didn't think the man even knew his name, but he knew that he stopped in to buy miscellaneous supplies whenever he happened by. (In actuality, Kabuto carefully timed his visits so that they only fell into a pattern for a few weeks, interspersed with visits on either end of two hours from the normal time, always on different days. He could not afford to be a 'regular' anywhere; he was supposed to be invisible.)

In the last decade, he hadn't been remembered by anyone he didn't want to recall him.

Kabuto indulged in pride sometimes. Or, what he thought was pride—a sharp needle in his heart that jabbed into his throat. It wasn't a pleasant feeling but it had a certain satisfaction to it, so he indulged. When it didn't get in the way.

He found a nice, tall tree with protruding roots. The earth was spongy, the sun was warm, and it had a half-slanted but serviceable angle on the clearing in Training Ground 7. He folded his hands in a silent prayer before opening his lunch box.

Intelligence gathering was often boring work. He would spend the next few hours pretending to work in the sunshine, writing down notes on the last Uchiha's ability and temperament. Then he'd pretend to fall asleep for however long the rookies were slated for training.

A second preteen surged from the corner Kabuto couldn't see and was promptly pushed into the dirt. The redirection of force was textbook; a wonderful deflection on Sasuke's part. It was, however, too forceful. He wasn't conserving energy that way. A thirty percent reduction in muscle tension would grant him at least point eight more seconds of control over his opponent.

Kabuto's pencil wavered.

When had Naruto gotten to that side of the clearing? He'd been in the pond when Kabuto had last noticed him and he hadn't looked away. Kabuto, Orochimaru's spymaster and righthand man, had _forgotten_ about Naruto Uzumaki. For a child who wore an entirely orange tracksuit and shouted more than he spoke, Naruto was surprisingly easy to overlook.

How dangerous. Kabuto made a note to observe Naruto in different environments and different outfits. He needed to disassociate the color from the boy so he could better incorporate him into his environmental awareness. Relying on heuristic approaches like clothing style was a slippery slope.

Kabuto knew Naruto was the container of the mighty nine-tailed fox, the chakra beast that had decimated Konoha on the child's birthday. More than that, he knew that Naruto displayed physical strength and stamina characteristic of someone twice his age and three times his height. His chakra reserves pushed the boundaries of medical possibility—and that was just his own chakra, not the Kyuubi.

By all rights Naruto should be a force to be reckoned with. Even if he had no _talent_ he had _power._ He could brute force his way through almost any problem (well, any problem below B rank) and yet…

Yet.

He was a clown. Easily overlooked, so he acted out to get attention. Kabuto wondered idly if he participated in self-sabotage, subconsciously pulling his taijutsu forms out of alignment, telegraphing his movements, making as much noise as possible. All to draw the attention of teachers who would rather pretend he didn't exist. Childhood neglect that would get him killed on the battlefield—that was Konoha for you.

Kabuto had seen people look through Naruto like he was air. He'd seen them walk right into him, then stumble away with irritation in their faces and words like it was _the kid's_ fault they hadn't seen him.

Part of it was probably the collective effort of the village to forget about him. The mob mentality was overpowering in a place as collectivized and community-oriented as Konoha. But part of it was just Naruto.

There are those who stand out in a crowd without effort, those like Sasuke Uchiha. They catch the attention of the wrong sort of people (or the right sort, depending on who was writing the mission report).

Then there are those who fade into the collective. Without something to set them apart they are little more than backdrop. Kabuto was that sort; it was only the conspiracy of coincidence that had deprived him of a meaningless background existence where he may have been dull but happy.

Naruto was that sort too, despite his best efforts.

Kabuto noted the degree to which Sasuke's fireball had intensified since the last time he'd performed the jutsu. He was practicing on his own, and that was good. Kabuto couldn't always watch him; he had to play the part of the dutiful genin as well as furnishing his master with new information. He couldn't do the latter if he didn't do the former, unfortunately.

Kabuto didn't mind.

It didn't matter what mask he wore, they were all masks. Here in the sunshine, letting the heat make him drowsy (make him look drowsy, at least, his mind could not and would not stop), or there in the sterile labs with their acidic tang in the back of this throat: it didn't matter. Each was as good as the other.

 _Lost him again,_ Kabuto noted as Naruto reappeared with a roundhouse kick. Sloppy form. He'd never break Sasuke's defenses like that.

In the privacy of his own mind, Kabuto was thankful that Naruto was the way he was. That he was on that team with That Uchiha. The farther from center stage he was, the more outshined, the safer he would be.

He didn't know it yet. He was young and foolish. He didn't know not to answer questions from strange men, even if they wore your colors and your symbol and seemed mildly interested in you as though you were something special.

He didn't, but he would.

If Kabuto had to teach him that himself, well, cruelty was sometimes a sort of kindness too.


	2. Buffoonish

**prompt word: buffoonish**

Kabuto had no right to judge others for their playacting.

Every day was still a conscious effort at normality. He didn't believe that would change any time soon. He still calculated the amount of teeth he had to show to seem happy, the number of times he had to contribute to the conversation to seem interested. Kabuto was constructing a new identity, but this time, he was trying to pull it from the depths of his own mind rather than molding himself around someone else's skeleton.

Kabuto was struggling. He knew that. He accepted it. That was part of healing.

And he had no right to judge another person's coping mechanism.

But.

Kabuto can't help the wince that Naruto's antics pulls out of him. He acts like an idiot—and he's _not_. As a former spy, he can understand wanting to hide your full potential, keep the enemy on their toes, and have an ace up your sleeve.

But Naruto was a _legend_ now, well known throughout the Elemental Countries. He had shined like the sun on a ruined battlefield with power flowing out into those who fought with him. He was _awe-inspiring_ : Kabuto could hardly believe someone like that had agreed (begrudgingly, at first) to help him find the light again.

When Kabuto stumbled, he knew Naruto would be there to catch him. He explained where he went wrong, in that strangely direct way of his. He was the reason that, two years later, Kabuto was still alive.

(In more ways than one.)

Naruto was laughing at an over-exaggerated mistake with a jutsu—and everyone else (the rookie nine had grown up so much) was laughing too. Kabuto had seen Naruto perform that jutsu a hundred times, flawlessly each time. He must have overpowered it on purpose—the fact that the resulting explosion had been more of a forceful push than a disaster was a testament to this.

Nobody could be _buying_ this, he thought. He hated it when Naruto acted like this. He pretended to be the buffoon to set others at ease, to make himself seem harmless.

Maybe it was a way to help them cope, too. Remind them he was just their friend, no matter what prophecy he fulfilled and goddess he destroyed. He understood it intellectually. He hated it.

Naruto shouldn't have to pretend to feel accepted. Not him, of all people.

"Kabuto! Let's go home!" Naruto's voice shattered his thoughts. He stared down at his roommate, hand outstretched.

He took it without hesitation.

"I'm thinking we should have something spicy tonight." Naruto babbled about anything, bubbling like a brook.

Kabuto made the appropriate murmurs, putting in his usual vote for "whatever you think is best" because he only really _liked_ one dish and they couldn't have that every night.

They pick their way through the streets, each avoiding the stares of others, though for different reasons. Somewhere along the way, Naruto slipped his hand into Kabuto's. He almost yanked his hand away. Naruto felt the twitch of his instinctual response and held firm.

This, too, was healing. It was allowing friendly touches for no other reason than that they were nice. It was acknowledging that Naruto wouldn't hurt him. With a carefully deep breath, Kabuto squeezed his fingers and tried to forget about the contact.

As though he could ever forget anything about Naruto.

Their apartment wasn't the same one they'd had before, when they first entered into this arrangement. There was only one room in that old one and it was awkward to be tripped over every morning. Their current living quarters, in contrast, had two bedrooms side-by-side, split by a shared bathroom, a kitchen, and a serviceable living room. It was a decent size: Kabuto had lived in worse places and so had Naruto.

It was practically luxury for shinobi.

They entered through the kitchen and Naruto started pulling ingredients out of the fridge. Kabuto made his way to his room. It was frustratingly sparse: a bed with blue sheets, a bookshelf, and a night stand. The only indication that the space was even used was the picture on the night stand, a gift from Sakura last year as congratulations for completing the rehabilitation program.

The fact that it was a candid shot of Naruto and Kabuto, looking over a scroll together, was a point in favor of her being too nosy for her own good.

He liked it though. It was more than he could say for most things. Naruto's arm was slung over his shoulder, pulling him in while he pointed forcefully at some line or other. It had knocked Kabuto's glasses askew. One hand came up to fix them, while the other had gripped Naruto's arm.

It looked more intimate than it had been. They'd broken apart not a second later because he'd seen and commented and Naruto had been satisfied.

The silence in his room was nice after a long day of social visits with Naruto's friends. It was difficult to get time to oneself with a roommate as rambunctious as him.

Kabuto grabbed a book he'd been working on—a medical treatise on an experimental procedure—and made his way back to the kitchen.

Naruto's bright greeting smile made his own lips curl upward of their own accord. As though it were natural. This kid, though he was hardly a kid now, had always managed to make him react unconsciously. It was almost enough to make someone believe that he was a real person.

Naruto graciously let Kabuto have a space at the counter to set his book. The rhythmic tapping of his knife, the bubbling of boiling water, and a tuneless humming were the only sounds.

Kabuto traced lines in his book without reading, content to watch Naruto work on their dinner.


End file.
